


An Accounting of Miracles

by asocialfauxpas (fuzzytomato)



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Coda, Devotion, Fever, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medieval Medicine, POV Outsider, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzytomato/pseuds/asocialfauxpas
Summary: “It was a miracle,” Diarmuid said, without looking up from his small, even stitches. “He shouldn’t have lived, but I knelt next to him on the beach and prayed. I prayed, and I prayed and despite all my mistakes, God granted my request."





	An Accounting of Miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Will_Write_4_Coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Will_Write_4_Coffee/gifts).



> So this fic is my attempt at giving Diarmuid and the Mute a happy ever after. You can read the relationship between them as romantic or as deep friendship as there is nothing explicit in this fic. But they definitely love each other. I didn't tag underage as Diarmuid's age isn't confirmed and it's not an explicit romantic relationship.
> 
> Thank you to Will_Write_4_Coffee for both introducing me to this film, encouraging my writing, and for the beta of this fic.

If it hadn’t been for the thunder from the summer storm waking her, she may have missed the pair sneaking into the stable. As it was, Matilda was awake as the sky rent with lightning and rumbled with the voice of God, so she heard the banging of the stable door. Her husband was at the nearby lord’s keep assisting with a mare that was about to drop a foal, so it was her duty to ensure the village animals were safe and well.

The stable was not large, but the walls were sturdy wood, and the thatching thick. A horse, a mule, a few goats, and the occasional stray cat were housed there. In her sleep robe and with bare feet shoved into her shoes, she lit a candle and shuffled out of her back door and into the storm.

The night was dark, and thick clouds obscured the moon and the stars. The unshielded flame of her small candle flickered, and she cupped her hand around it as she walked the short path from her home to the small stable door off to the side. She eased open the gate and stopped short.

Between the booms of thunder and barely over the drive of the rain, she heard voices.

Not the wind from the storm then that had blown open the door. Trespassers. Maybe thieves. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to sneak off with the village goats, and she’d bashed them about the head with the handle of her pitch fork. She’d do the same this time if needed.

She blew out the candle as to not give herself away and slid into the darkness of the stable.

“We’ll rest here,” a voice said in soft, lilting Gaelic—a language she could understand but not speak herself—a language from the recesses of her own youth. “I can’t… I can’t keep going.”

She couldn’t see them, tucked into an empty stall as they were, but the voice trembled with exhaustion.

“For the night,” he said. She heard the rustle of straw then a yawn. “For the night then we’ll decide what to do.” 

She stayed her hand and didn’t reach for her tools on the wall, nor did she scream for help from the neighbors.

“I know you’re afraid. I’m afraid too.” The speaker, a boy if she had to guess, sounded young but brave. “But we can’t continue running. Don’t look at me like that. We can’t, especially not with winter looming.” Another yawn. “Prayers before rest. Then sleep.”

Brave and pious.

Matilda bit back a sigh and slid out of the gate into the dying storm. They were not thieves, only weary travelers. Maybe if her husband were home, she’d confront them and shoo them from the stable. Maybe if it weren’t raining buckets and the forks of lightning weren’t so frequent, she’d send them on their way. But for this night, she’d let them rest, and wait until morning.

She closed the door and walked back to the warmth of her home. The murmur of a voice in prayer, devout and sweet, drifted on the wind behind her.

-

Matilda woke the next morning before the sun had risen. She completed her ablutions then dressed for the day. She had a breakfast of day-old biscuits and a piece of goat cheese. Then she wrapped two servings of the same into a cloth and went outside.

Unlike the night prior, she didn’t sneak about. When she pushed open the stable door, she walked in, right to the stall where a pair of legs stuck out into the row.

A tall man with dark hair leapt to his feet at her arrival, his hand reaching for the dagger at his waist, his body crouched like a feral cat ready to pounce.

Her heart beat hard in her chest and she dropped the cloth and scurried back. This was not a boy, not the voice she’d heard tired and scared in the night or whispered in prayer. This was a man, dangerous and wild. Startled, she threw up her hands and let out a choked shout, before she ran to the wall and grabbed the hoe. She brandished it, aware that if he had wanted to kill her, she would’ve been dead before she had taken two steps.

They stared at each other. Her chest heaved. His body shook. Neither moved.

After what felt like an age, he glanced down at a biscuit which had rolled free of the fabric and lay in the dirt then back to her and slowly, so slowly, the tautness of his muscles eased, and the hand gripping the dagger dropped, and he stepped to the side.

On a pillow of straw, the boy lay, unmoved, unperturbed, dead asleep. Hollow cheeked and pale as milk, he curled on his side. A too large tunic slipped from one shoulder, and he wore long tattered breeches. His bare feet were caked with mud. Brown curls lay flat across his forehead. His face, framed by the dark fabric of a cloak and tilted toward the rising sun, appeared younger than what she’d imagined based on the conversation she’d heard the night before.

Swallowing her fear, she addressed the man.

“Who are you? Why are you in my stable?”

He stared at her and didn’t speak.

It occurred to her that he might not know her language. The conversation from the night previous was in Gaelic, not English.

“Can you understand me?”

He nodded.

“You have no answer then? Who are you?”

He lowered his gaze and scuffed his boot through the packed earthen floor.

She narrowed her eyes. The night before—there had been one voice—a one-sided stream of words.

“Can you speak?”

He shook his head.

Ah. A mute.

She lowered the hoe. “I won’t harm you nor him, but you slept in my stable. You will work for me today to repay my kindness for not throwing you out on your ear last night in the storm. And for breakfast.” Matilda nodded toward the biscuit. “A little dirt never hurt anyone. Eat up.”

He took the bread but left the bundle of the other biscuit and cheese in the stall, next to the boy’s hand. He moved to wake him, but Matilda stopped him.

“Let him rest.” His eyes darted to her. “He’s exhausted. He needs to sleep. But you can come along. I have a garden to tend and these goats won’t milk themselves.”

His gaze lingered on the sweet sleeping face of his friend.

“He’ll be fine here. No one will harm him.”

He stared at her, dark eyes assessing, as if he could read her soul. It unnerved her, but she must have passed his judgment for he sheathed the dagger. He took a bite of the biscuit, and acquiesced, matching her step to the large barn doors. Together, they pushed them open, and shepherded the goats and mule and pony into the adjoining pasture.

In the rising sunlight, he appeared as worn as the boy, with a dirt caked face, and a beard which hadn’t been trimmed, and hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. She offered him a drink from their well, which he obliged, throat bobbing as he drank his fill. Trickles of water cut through the grime on his cheeks, flowed down the curve of his neck, and wetted the tunic stretched out across broad shoulders. 

During the morning chores, he moved stiffly, but with purpose, and before long, he’d helped with the goats, and fixed a fence post. He was good at the work, and strong, knowledgeable, and he listened well. He’d been a farm hand at one time, or a laborer.

There was companionship in good work, in sweat and in wet soil and the smell of animals. She appreciated his silence and the only complaint she could muster was his frequent glances toward the stable.

It wasn’t until hours later and they were both bent over the rows of her garden, that the boy awoke.

His panicked cry broke the silence of their work. Her new friend dropped his trowel in the dirt at the sound and trampled over a row of beets in his haste to cross the field.

The boy, wild-eyed and afraid, tore from the building, babbling a litany of Gaelic too fast for her to understand. 

Her mute friend did however, and they collided in the pasture, their bodies hitting with a hard jolt. The boy scrabbled at the mute’s arms, tears cutting tracks in the dirt of his face, as his chest heaved, and frantic words tumbled from his lips between aching sobs.

Her new friend took the boy’s face in his palms, gentle as one would handle a newborn, then pressed their foreheads together.

The tenderness of the action surprised her, but it worked. The boy gradually calmed, and Matilda was able to parse out a few words in the fast flow of his language.

Afraid. Lost. Gone. _Again._

The mute shook his head. He took the boy’s slender hand in his own and pressed it to his chest and held it there, as if to say _I’m here_. The boy nodded, gulped a final heaving breath, and collapsed forward, his face pressed to the Mute’s shoulder.

Matilda approached cautiously. She gave them a few moments, where the boy clung to the strong shoulders of the Mute, and the Mute ran his hands through the boy’s disheveled curls, then cleared her throat.

The boy snapped his head up and stepped away from the closeness of the man’s body. But he caught the back of the boy’s tunic, halted him, and moved to stand in front, instinctively shielding him from her sight.

“I hope you slept well in my stable.” She addressed the boy and gestured toward the building.

The boy’s eyes widened then he looked away, embarrassed, cheeks burning with a blush. He scrubbed his face with the cuff of his tunic.

“Your friend here has helped me this morning to pay off your debt.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” the boy said in halting English. “We don’t mean to trouble you further. We’ll be on our way.”

Matilda pressed her lips together. “Your morning is gone, boy. If you leave now, you won’t get far before you must sneak into someone else’s property to wait out the next summer storm. You might as well stay the day.”

The boy exchanged a look with the mute. The Mute dipped his chin, his hand gripping the boy’s shoulder.

The boy turned back to her, eyes wary, but seemingly relieved. “We have nothing to offer you but work.”

“That’s all I ask. Your friend impressed me with his efforts this morning and that he understood my language.”

The boy stuck out his chin, expression turning hard and stubborn. “He’s a mute. Not a halfwit.”

“I didn’t say he was.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Matilda.”

“I’m called Diarmuid.”

“And him?”

The boy clenched his jaw. “He doesn’t have a name.”

“Then what do you call him?”

“My friend.”

“Very well. There is food in the stall where you slept, and you can use the well for water. Eat and drink then head into that copse,” she said, nodding toward the small wood that bordered the pasture. “My husband set snares yesterday. Check them. If there is a rabbit, we’ll have stew for supper.”

The boy twisted his hands. “I must pray first.”

“Don’t dawdle, then.”

Diarmuid nodded quickly. She turned away, listening for the pad of their footsteps as they went about their tasks.

They may go into the wood and not return, steal the rabbits in the traps and continue their journey across the countryside. But she doubted that. They may be trespassers, but the man worked without complaint while the boy slept. And the boy, Diarmuid, didn’t strike her as a thief. They were both fatigued of body and spirit, and a little kindness would do them good.

How they came to be traveling together did pique her curiosity, but that was their business alone, and despite what her neighbors would say, Matilda did not meddle. 

-

They returned with two fat rabbits.

Diarmuid set about skinning and cleaning them with deft, calloused hands and nimble fingers. Matilda didn’t miss that her silent friend turned away from the blood and left Diarmuid’s side, instead to chop more kindling for the cooking fire.

She toddled down the stone steps carrying her cast iron pot filled with water, carrots, leeks, and potatoes. “Cut the smaller one into chunks and add it to pot. We’ll smoke the other one.”

“Yes, _Abba._ ”

He realized what he had said the moment it slipped from his mouth and he frowned deeply. Head bowed, his hands stuttered in their work of cutting through the raw meat, the knife slipping dangerously close to his skin streaked with rabbit’s blood. He cleared his throat. 

“Yes, Matilda.”

When the task was finished, she nodded her approval. “Good work. Hang the pelts in the stable. Then go wash. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

He turned, then paused. “Thank you.” Then he scurried away, tapping his friend on the shoulder and beckoning him to follow.

-

Diarmuid and his friend set upon their bowls of rabbit stew like starving men. They had washed, and once the grime had been removed, she could see the dark bruises beneath Diarmuid’s eyes, and the paleness of his complexion. Her silent friend had trimmed his beard and revealed the hollows of his cheeks. They both looked hunted, and she contemplated what had put fear in their souls. She didn’t ask. There wasn’t an answer that would soothe them or her.

Compassion stirred in Matilda’s chest, and she began formulating a plan as she refilled their bowls before they were empty. With her two children grown and gone, she hadn’t had someone to look after in many seasons.

Her husband returned to the three of them at the table eating stew. He looked between them, rolled his eyes and trundled passed. He kissed the crown of her head and hung his jacket on the peg by the door.

Both of her guests watched him warily.

“This is my husband, Richard. This is Diarmuid and his friend. They worked for us today for a meal and a place to sleep.”

Richard sat at the table and scooped a bowl. He tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf and dug in. “And where will you be traveling next?”

“We don’t know,” Diarmuid said.

“South is London. North is cold and wild.” Richard made a noise of approval at his first bite. “I’m certain my wife will have a few ideas.” He cut his gaze to her. Matilda had perfected an air of innocence over the years, but Richard had perfected the way to see right through her.

“We’re indebted to your wife already for her kindness. We cannot ask for anything more.”

Matilda nudged Diarmuid’s empty bowl. “You can enjoy my stew. And then lead us in prayer tonight.”

Diarmuid startled, brown eyes wide and suddenly glassy. He swallowed and jerked his head. She wanted to take it back upon seeing the exposed wounds. She opened her mouth to do so but closed it when the Mute touched Diarmuid’s wrist, thick fingers sliding along the thin bones in comfort. Brow furrowed, Diarmuid’s eyes fluttered shut and he set his jaw.

“Yes, Matilda.”

-

They stayed two more days.

Matilda was an observer by nature and she learned much in the hours she spent with them. The first morning of their arrival was an anomaly. The next days, Diarmuid rose before the sun as would his friend. With the Mute his constant shadow, Diarmuid would find a quiet spot, and together they would kneel and pray.

Diarmuid’s Latin was fluent and deep as he bowed his head and crossed his body. He would close his eyes, slender neck bent in penitence, and speak the ancient rote words of prayer, reverent and beautiful.

His protector joined him, but his eyes were always open and alert, daring anyone, even Matilda, to disturb Diarmuid in his ritual.

The morning of the third day, Matilda bid her silent friend to hitch the pony to the cart.

“The farmer and his boys need hands for the next week. I’ll introduce you both.”

She had learned Diarmuid had it ingrained in him to obey. He was stubborn as the day was long when he had an idea in his head. But in the little time she’d known him, she’d seen it only once, and even then, he completed the chore, though while grumbling in Gaelic beneath his breath. Otherwise, he bent to the will of authority without complaint.

His silent friend seemed to enjoy the labor of work. He went to sleep earlier and appeared more well-rested in the morning after a hard day of sweat and toil.

It would be good for them both to know others in the village. And the farmer had three boys who would do well with them. Maybe even break the solemnness from Diarmuid’s countenance and the tension from the Mute’s shoulders.

The ride to the farmer’s lands was not long, but it was filled with unease from her two passengers.

“William is a fair man,” she said. “He’ll be good to you both. And if he’s not, you come right back to me. Understand?”

“Yes, Matilda.”

She reined in the pony at the farmhouse. William and his boys, all big strapping lads with hay-colored hair, met her. There were three of them. The fourth passed away two summers ago in an accident, God rest him.

“William,” she greeted, “I have two hands ready to work.”

He eyed them, brows drawn together. He stood in front of the Mute. “You done farm work before?”

Diarmuid stepped forward. “He cannot speak, but yes, he can work.”

William frowned. “And you, boy?”

She saw a flicker of defiance and obstinance in Diarmuid’s brown eyes.

“I vouch for them both, William. I wouldn’t bring you anyone you would have to coddle.”

William pointed to a far-off field filled with tall grass. “That field needs to be scythed and the hay bundled.”

“We can do it,” Diarmuid said, chin stuck out, lips in a thin line.

“Good. We’ll feed you and house you until you’re done. Boys, show our guests where to start.”

The sons came forward, eyeing them with thinly veiled skepticism, but they introduced themselves and guided the pair to a barn.

Matilda clucked her tongue and turned the pony, a list of chores already running through her head to stave off the worry of leaving her two new charges.

“Matilda!” 

She turned at the sound of Diarmuid’s voice. He fidgeted then said a phrase in hurried Gaelic.

A blessing.

He turned on his heel and ran to join the others.

-

Matilda didn’t worry. A week passed, and they didn’t return. That was good, meaning they’d impressed William, and were still needed.

But when she saw William’s wife walking about the village, she took the opportunity.

“A better pair of men we’ve not had before, strange as they are,” she said. “They work hard and don’t ask for much. Though the silent one wouldn’t go near when we bled a hog. The boy prays every moment he’s idle and the other never leaves his side. David learned the hard way not to put his hands on the boy. Earned a black eye and he’s lucky that’s all he got. His fault though. Should’ve known not to bother the boy especially with the way the man looks after him.”

“I’m glad they’re doing well.”

She smiled. “We’ll send them back, Matilda. They’ll be yours to dote on again soon enough.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matilda said with a sniff.

“Don’t go making them clothes. I gave Diarmuid Charles’s clothes and boots, God rest his soul. That boy’s poor feet were blistered, and he almost was bit by an adder.” Matilda’s heart squeezed. “And the boys all gave the silent one their cast offs. Though he’s a bit broader in the shoulders and arms than they are. Built for work or war, that one.”

“Thank you.”

The farmer’s wife mouth thinned. “Do you know…” she trailed off, expression pinched. “Do you know what happened to them?”

“I don’t. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Well, the boys said they saw the silent one without his tunic and he’s covered in scars. And the boy… I’ve not seen him smile.” She shook her head. “So young to be so grave. But best leave the past alone.”

Matilda agreed. “Some things are for only God to know.”

She sighed. “Yes. Well, I’ll be sure to tell them you were asking after them. That might shake a smile from dear Diarmuid.”

Matilda doubted it, but she didn’t say anything.

-

Less than a week after her conversation with William’s wife, they returned.

The village was a cluster of small buildings, some made of stone, others of sturdy wood, with one street cobbled of stone and mud, a leftover from the Romans. Matilda’s front door faced the street, and the stable stretched off to the side. She was the last house in a row and from her front stoop, she spied the pair walking down the street.

Diarmuid’s face had filled from good meals, and the color had returned to his skin, though his ghosts still clung to him. Demons dogged his steps if the down-turned bow of his mouth was an indication. He wore his hood up as if hiding, the dark fabric framing his face. Dour as he was, at least he had a pair of boots.

His shadow stayed a half-step behind as they walked, dressed in better clothes than what he had when he first appeared, and moving more fluid, but still with the appearance of a wild man, dangerous and feral. If she hadn’t seen the gentleness between them, the way he’d soothed Diarmuid’s panic, she’d fear for the boy. As such, she feared for anyone who bothered him.

The Mute nudged Diarmuid’s side. Diarmuid stopped and followed his gaze to where Matilda watched them.

Diarmuid shook his head. The Mute nudged him again, insistent this time, and Diarmuid stumbled. He scowled, his cheeks coloring, and said something with a sharp tongue.

“I hope you don’t intend to ignore me,” Matilda called from her seat where she darned socks.

Diarmuid shot a dark, petulant look over his shoulder, before he shuffled over.

“No, Matilda,” he said, ever respectful.

“How was the farm? Did William treat you well?”

Diarmuid fidgeted. His friend pushed his shoulder and nodded to Matilda.

Diarmuid’s cheeks flushed darker and grumbled a Gaelic curse beneath his breath. That’s when she realized – he was embarrassed.

“Out with it, lad.”

Diarmuid pulled out a leather pouch and thrust it toward her.

Curious, she took it and tugged on the drawstring. A small pile of coins lay within.

“Oh, he paid you coin, eh? That was generous.”

Diarmuid sighed. “Can you… can you teach me how to use them?”

She snapped her head up, incredulous.

“Where I’m from we don’t have much use for coin,” Diarmuid said, quick and defensive. “I know what it’s for, but I don’t know how to use them. And he can’t teach me. And I…” his voice trailed off in frustration.

Matilda patted his clenched hands. “Diarmuid,” she said softly, “you speak three languages that I’ve heard. And I wager you can read and write?”

“A little.”

“Then you are far more learned than me. There’s no shame in not knowing. Come inside. I’ll teach you.”

His shoulders fell from their position by his ears and he nodded. “Thank you.”

They sat at the table and she fed them meat pies while she taught them. When Richard returned from the keep, and the moon hung full in the sky, she shooed them to the stable for rest. 

-

Matilda’s daughter lived in the village over, a much larger affair, nestled near the walls of the lord’s keep. She married three summers ago to the son of the lord’s farrier. Every sixth day of the week in the summer, the village held a market.

Her and Richard would travel in the wee hours, visit their daughter and the market, then stay the evening to attend mass at the keep’s chapel the following morning before heading home. On this trip, they coaxed Diarmuid and his friend to join them.

They were both tense as bow strings on the journey. Diarmuid babbled in nervous Gaelic and only ceased when Richard snapped at him.

“English, boy! Or don’t speak at all!”

Effectively cowed, Diarmuid slouched down in the bed of the cart, mouth pinched. The Mute draped his arm across Diarmuid’s shoulders and pulled him close, and Diarmuid nestled into the embrace, fit in the space at his friend’s side, as natural as breathing.

They fell asleep to the gentle rocking of the cart.

She roused them when they arrived at the town. She should’ve known then, when the Mute’s sharp eyes took in the cadre of soldiers milling about the market, and his face went pale, and his breathing quickened, that it would go wrong.

But she didn’t, and the four of them disembarked the cart at the stable and walked into the bustling square.

They wandered. Diarmuid’s eyes were open in wonder as he took in the people and the wares. She suspected he hadn’t seen anything like it before as sheltered as he acted in some regards. The Mute stayed next to his side, watching their environment like a hawk watches the ground from a perch, intimidating in a quiet way when anyone stepped too close.

They came to a stand filled with religious baubles and Diarmuid wrinkled his nose at the carvings and statues. Bejeweled crosses hung from a rope above, and ornate depictions of the Christ, and medals of the saints were presented on soft fabrics.

He said something in Gaelic and looked to his friend with a soft curl of his lip. The Mute huffed in return.

Diarmuid stopped to stare at a small wooden cross on a chord. Simple and plain, not like the other wares, and for a moment, his gaze went far away, eyes shining. The Mute nudged him and jerked his chin toward the necklace. Diarmuid shook his head, frowning, and they moved away to the next stall.

In the ebb and flow of the crowd, Matilda became separated from Diarmuid and the Mute, but didn’t think much of it until she found herself and Richard on the other side of the market from her friends. Peering through, she spotted Diarmuid by himself browsing slingshots and daggers, and worry lanced through her as a pair of soldiers appeared from around a corner of the keep’s wall and approached him.

She was too far away to hear what the soldier said to make Diarmuid skitter away, red-cheeked with his jaw clenched. Posture bent, face downturned, brown hair falling into his eyes, he looked small and unsure. _Afraid_ , like prey, and it only encouraged the soldier to say something else, and dare to grip Diarmuid’s chin with his glove, tilting it up with a rough jerk.

The Mute appeared as if summoned, a demon parting from the shadows. He strode without a stutter in his step right up the soldiers, expression grim and tight. The one dropped his hand and backed away, daunted by a broad chest and muscled arms, and the challenge of a fighter’s stance.

Matilda pushed her way forward, desperate to defuse the growing tension, but she was a boat rowing against the tide, and could forge no closer in the clutch of the crowd.

There was an exchange of words she couldn’t hear. With a stubborn jaw, Diarmuid spat a reply, caustic and biting.

The backhand was well-struck, and the sound of it echoed above the din of the crowd. Diarmuid’s head snapped to the side, and blood sprayed from his mouth onto the ground and the tunic of the Mute.

Matilda’s stomach dropped.

In all her days, she’d never heard a roar ripped from the throat of a man like the one her silent friend let loose with his rage. In the space of a blink, both soldiers were bloody and downed, their helmets, armor, and mail no protection against well-aimed fists and a devil’s wrath. The Mute followed them to the ground, and Matilda skidded to a halt, hand flying to her open mouth, as he rained vicious blows upon them. 

Panicked, Diarmuid looped his hands around one of the Mute’s swinging arms, pulling him back, shouting in Gaelic.

“Stop!” He yelled, voice breaking on a sob. “Stop!” He wedged his body between the Mute and the fallen men, hands splayed across the Mute’s bloodied cheeks. “It’s me! It’s me!” He grasped the Mute’s nape, and held him, bringing their foreheads together. “It’s me. I’m here.” He grasped one of his hands, the knuckles scraped and weeping, and laced their fingers, bringing the fist to his chest. “I’m here. I’m here.”

The Mute’s chest heaved, and recognition came back to his eyes.

“There,” Diarmuid said with a nod. “There you are.” With his friend calm, Diarmuid looked about and startled at the encroaching crowd, all staring with wide eyes, pointing and shouting.

He scrabbled to his feet, hand fisted in the Mute’s tunic, tugging him upward. Matilda saw the slice of blood across the Mute’s tunic, under his arm and around his chest, but he didn’t seem aware as he stumbled under the force of Diarmuid’s hold.

Together, they ran.

-

Matilda stormed into the stable, angry as an adder flushed from its nest. She stomped to their stall.

“You will tell me what that was,” she demanded. “And you’ll tell me now or I’ll have you run out of this village.”

After their departure, Matilda found Richard and they abandoned their original plans and made for home. It appeared they’d only just beaten her back on foot.

Diarmuid had thrown open all the doors and windows and his friend lay on the hay in a shaft of the dying sunlight. Despite her interruption, Diarmuid’s hands were steady as he stitched closed the bloody wound across the Mute’s ribs.

He didn’t answer her right away, humming softly, as the Mute lay with his head titled back, eyes closed, jaw set, and face held perfectly still as not to grimace.

In the quiet moments of waiting, her anger dimmed from a raging fire to an ember. And when she’d calmed, she looked over the scene again. Her insides twisted.

The Mute was shirtless. As the farmer’s boys had said, he was covered in scars, but the one near his navel, a jagged angry tear which stretched across the width of his belly, made her breath catch. How had he survived a wound such as that?

“It was a miracle,” Diarmuid said, without looking up from his small, even stitches. “He shouldn’t have lived, but I knelt next to him on the beach and prayed. I prayed, and I prayed and despite all my mistakes, God granted my request. He gave me the knowledge to treat the wound, and He kept the fever at bay, and He led me to where he could recover hidden from the ones who searched for us.”

Diarmuid tied off the thread and used the dagger to cut it. He then poured water from the skin into a tin cup, added herbs from a cloth from his satchel, and held it to his friend’s lips, cradling his head in the curve of his palm. Without question, the Mute drank the water, swallowing the herbs and all.

“He forgets himself sometimes,” Diarmuid said, easing the Mute’s head back to the straw. Diarmuid placed his hand on the Mute’s bare chest and whispered a phrase and the man’s eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed into the makeshift bed. “He doesn’t mean to,” Diarmuid continued, cleaning up his supplies. When he finally looked to Matilda, he had a livid mark across his cheek, and a split in his lip. It was swollen and tender and Diarmuid prodded it with blood-stained fingertips.

“Are you hurt?” she said, gesturing to his face.

“I’m certain it looks worse than it is.”

That did not bring peace to Matilda at all. “Did you learn how to sew in the monastery?”

Diarmuid didn’t act surprised that she fathomed him out, more disgruntled than anything.

“Yes.”

She waited a moment. When no explanation was forthcoming, she tapped her foot. “Are you going to tell me how a little monk and a soldier came to be traveling together? So far from the land of your abbey?”

Diarmuid settled on the hay next to the Mute’s hip, careful of the other man’s wound. He bent his legs, propped one arm and kept the other resting on the Mute’s chest. He spoke to the wooden wall, gaze fixed, voice far away, like she’d seen in the market as he stared at the cross.

“It was the fall when we left. A Cistercian arrived at our abbey with a letter from the Holy Father in Rome. At that time, I’d known my friend here for five summers…”

Matilda listened. She learned of Brother Rua, Brother Ciaran, and Brother Cathal. She learned of Raymond De Merville and his treachery. She learned of Brother Geraldus and his greed. She learned of Saint Matthias and the relic and the sound of bells in the bog.

She learned of The Mute’s sacrifice.

She learned of devotion.

“I threw the relic into the sea and I killed Brother Geraldus. I failed in every way. I cannot go home.” Diarmuid’s gaze fell to where the Mute lay sleeping. His hand trembled when he swept his fingers across the sweaty brow of his savior. “He sacrificed himself for God and God saved him. I must protect him because sometimes he forgets he’s worth protecting.”

Matilda didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted the tears on her lips. She dabbed them away with the edge of her apron. How could the boy not realize that his silent friend hadn’t sacrificed himself for God but for him?

“When he could walk again, we traveled east. We spent a winter in an abandoned ruin left by the Romans. We should have starved. But by another miracle, we survived.” He took a stuttered breath. “Weak as we’ve been, we haven’t been able to travel far. But I know we cannot survive another winter the way we did.”

Matlida took his hand and Diarmuid flinched, as if coming out of a dream.

“Sorry,” he said under his breath.

Matilda shook her head. “No, love. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. As young as you are, you should have never had to carry those burdens.”

“Sometimes I wonder if they know. If they realize something went wrong. If they think of me. Of us.”

“Every day,” Matilda said, quickly. “They think of you every day.” At Diarmuid’s uncertain look, she bent her head. “I had a son die when he was younger than you are now. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that lad. And I’m sure it’s the same for your brothers, for your _Abba_.”

“I’m sorry for what happened in the market. Brother Ciaran used to warn me about my mouth.”

Matilda waved his apology away. “Do not worry. Rest now. Make sure our friend is well and take care of him. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Diarmuid furrowed his brow and peered out the open window, only realizing it had turned dark an hour ago. He yawned then, and Matilda patted his head, scratched her nails through those unruly curls.

“Sleep. I’ll take care of the chores.”

Diarmuid nodded and curled on his side, tucking his hands inside his cloak, and pulling the hood over his head to obscure his face. Matilda boarded the windows and locked the doors. She herded the goats and rubbed the pony’s nose.

Before she left, she checked in the stall.

Diarmuid’s head was pillowed on the Mute’s shoulder, his breathing even and deep, his hand curled gently on the center of the Mute’s chest, the corner of his cloak thrown over to hide the scars and wound. The Mute’s arm was around his shoulders. He was awake and stared at her with those fathomless dark eyes, weighing her soul. She nodded to him, and left, blowing out the candle as she closed the door.

Her heart ached in her breast. But they were safe for the night. And she’d see them safe for the rest of her days, if God would let her.

-

“Are they well?” Richard asked when she came into their house. “I heard you shouting.”

“He should be fine. The wound was bloody but not deep.”

“And the boy?”

Matilda paused. “He’s not a boy,” she said, sitting heavily in her chair. “He’s seen too much for a boy.”

Richard took her hand in his and squeezed her fingers. “Here,” he said, pulling an object from the pouch at his side. “Give this to him tomorrow.”

He pressed the plain wooden cross into her palm.

Matilda’s lips trembled. She’d married a good man, and she pulled him in for a kiss.

-

Rumors spread like wildfire. Matilda did her best to quash them, replace them with other rumors, and in the end, the villagers sided with dear Diarmuid, the little monk, and his protector.

“Shouldn’t have struck the boy,” William said, arms crossed. “I saw the mark and his split lip. Not a cause for it. The boy has not an ounce of malice. Good thing our friend was there to intervene.” His boys agreed, bobbing their heads.

Matilda’s friend, Alice, the local herbalist shook her head. “Those soldiers are bullies. I’ve always said.” She cut her gaze to Matilda. “Should I take a look at the wound?”

“Actually,” Matilda said, “Diarmuid stitched it himself. Part of his training at the monastery. He knows thread and herbs and prayers.”

Alice was impressed. “Do you think he could assist me with gathering herbs?

“I think he could do anything.”

-

“I don’t like being idle,” Diarmuid said after one of the farmer’s boys dropped off a load of clothes to be mended with an apology.

“Good thing. Mother praised your work last time and I think she’ll never sew again.”

Diarmuid sat on Matilda’s stoop. The Mute worked in the stable nearby, mucking out the stalls. The large door was open, as were all the windows, where he could keep a wary eye.

The farmer’s boys arrived in town with two baskets. One full of garments for Diarmuid, and the other full of pups. The oldest set the latter down at Matilda’s feet.

They were small squirming things, barely old enough to be away from their mother, and they yipped as they climbed over each other, rolled, and played.

“Father wants us to sell them, if we can. Their mother is a good dog. Likes to hunt rabbits and keeps the rats out of the barn.”

A curious one, white with black spots, popped its head above the basket’s rim. It clambered out, paws slipping, tail wagging, and fell headfirst into Diarmuid’s lap. It whined and with gentle, calloused hands, Diarmuid righted the pup. Paws on Diarmuid’s chest, it butted its small head against his chin, then licked.

Diarmuid burst into laughter.

Matilda dropped her needle work. The farmer’s boys stared.

The pup licked his cheek, quick little swipes of its tongue, then nipped Diarmuid’s ear. He laughed again, a joyous sound, clear as a bell rung from a church steeple.

The Mute came running from around the corner and stopped short, expression one of open wonder, as Diarmuid laughed and smiled while the pup nibbled the collar of his tunic. Eyes crinkled, head thrown back, beaming, Diarmuid’s face transformed from a handsome lad to a beautiful one as the pup sniffed his hair and tugged on the strands.

Diarmuid petted the pup’s head, murmuring to it in Gaelic as it licked his fingers and yipped.

“That one likes you,” David said.

Diarmuid turned and handed the pup off to the work-rough hands of his stunned friend. The Mute held it up, its little feet dangling, his gaze darting between Diarmuid, Matilda, and the boys. It yipped then licked the Mute’s cheek.

Diarmuid laughed again, clutching his sides. “It likes you too!”

“How much for the pup, David?” Matilda asked, amused.

“It’s his. For the price of a laugh.”

Diarmuid craned his neck upward. “I can keep it?” He glanced to the Mute. “I’ve never had a dog. I don’t know how to take care of it or train it.”

The Mute regarded the pup then set it gently back in Diarmuid’s lap. He jerked his chin toward David and gave a small bow of thanks, before turning and going back to his work. The pup whined after him. The Mute stopped and looked over his shoulder where the pup tried to free itself from Diarmuid’s grip.

At his nod, Diarmuid let go and the pup sat down, head cocked to the side, long ears perked up. The Mute gave a sharp whistle, and the pup scampered to the heels of The Mute’s boots, falling over its paws to follow.

Diarmuid’s smile broke over his face as lovely as the break of the rising sun over the horizon.

“Diarmuid, I wager that pup is in the best hands in the village,” David said. “I’ll be back in a few days to pick up the mending.”

“I’ll have it done.”

-

Ingratiating themselves into the small community took time, but with Matilda’s guiding hand, and favorable reports from the farmer and his boys, The Mute found plenty of work. With his wound healed, he was able to complete all manner of chores, and Diarmuid became known for sewing, mending, recognizing herbs, and unwittingly for prayer.

The night a young shepherd arrived asking for Diarmuid to perform last rites was one Matilda will not forget easily.

“I don’t want to go,” Diarmuid said, voice quiet, face pale. “I was only a novice.”

Matilda doesn’t miss his use of the past tense. Was.

“I didn’t take the vows. I can’t perform the sacrament.”

Matilda patted his cheek. “You’re the closest we have. The priest from the keep’s chapel will not make it in time.”

Diarmuid glanced at the waiting shepherd. “I killed a man,” he said, voice low. “I abandoned my order. I am not worthy.”

The Mute shouldered in, expression twisted into something akin to anger, something Matilda had not seen directed at Diarmuid before. He pointed to Diarmuid’s chest, and then to his own stomach. The wound. The miracle.

Diarmuid looked up, eyes wet. “That was _different._ ”

The Mute shook his head. He folded his hands as if in prayer, then jerked his chin toward the man patiently waiting.

Understanding, Diarmuid nodded.

Head bowed, he approached the shepherd. “I cannot perform the rites,” he said. “But I can pray over your grandfather and do what I can.”

Matilda did not go with them. She kept the pup while Diarmuid and the Mute traveled. But when they returned the following day, Diarmuid kept to himself, hid in the stable and cried.

“He’s grieving the life he once had,” she said to the Mute who stalked outside, unfocused on his chores. “But he will come around.”

That night after supper, Matilda dawdled outside the stable as the boys prepared for bed, listening.

“I know we cannot go home,” Diarmuid said, voice thick with longing and tears. “Sometimes I forget that Ciaran, Rua, and Cathal are not there. Even if we survived the journey, even if they welcomed me back with the stain of my sins, it wouldn’t be home.”

There was a rustle. The pup whined and Diarmuid shushed him gently.

“You could go if you wanted. I could not go with you but please don’t think I’m keeping you—”

Matilda didn’t see how the words were cut off, but she imagined the Mute’s large hand across Diarmuid’s mouth, and the violent shake of his head.

“Maybe,” Diarmuid said, softly, after several minutes of silence, “this could be home.”

Matilda hoped.

-

The village knew that Adam, the youngest of the butcher’s boys, loved to tell stories. He always had a yarn about an adventure he’d never taken, or tales about faeries and spirits he’d never met. When he went on, the village folks would roll their eyes, accustomed to his fibs, and tell him to shut his mouth and move on. Diarmuid didn’t. He would smile softly and continue with his work. Once Diarmuid had told Matilda that Adam reminded him of Brother Rua, and the Mute had smirked in agreement.

So when Adam returned from a trip to the keep, boasting about how a highborn lady wanted to marry him, everyone brushed it off as talk.

That was until one of the lady’s brothers showed up, braying about honor, and calling for Adam’s blood. 

The nobleman dismounted his horse in the middle of the street and drew his sword.

Adam, a boy a few summers older than Diarmuid, stepped out from the shadows of a building where he gabbed with the farmer’s boys.

He’d only used knives to bleed hogs and cut leather and didn’t know what to do with the sword tossed at his feet. He picked it up tentatively with two hands that shook badly.

Diarmuid leapt up from his place on Matilda’s stoop. She grabbed him.

“Don’t you dare.”

“He’ll kill him!”

“He might. Or he’ll humiliate him. Whatever he does, it’s not your place.”

Adam held the sword and at the first nobleman’s strike, he dropped it in the dirt. The man sneered.

“Do you think my sister would deign to carry your brood?” He flicked the end of his sword. “Pick it up.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you forgot your place.” He stalked around Adam. “Pick it up and have some honor before I spill your miserable guts.”

She didn’t know where he came from, the last she’d seen him was mingling with the farmer’s boys and tolerating their antics, but he appeared like a warrior out of myth, striding toward the scene with wrath writ in his features as sure as the word of God. He walked passed the frightened Adam, and with never taking his eyes of the noble’s face, took up the sword.

“What? You’ll fight in his stead?”

He gave one sharp nod.

“What is he to you? Brother? Son?”

He didn’t answer. Neither did Adam, too stunned to talk or move.

“I don’t care. I hope he’s worth your blood though.”

One of the farmer’s boys had the sense to grab Adam and yank him away as the Mute faced the lord and raised his sword.

On the second strike of blades, the Mute hit so fiercely the noble lost his grip, and the sword skittered away in the dirt. The Mute set the edge of his sword along the noble’s throat and Diarmuid’s muscles bunched under Matilda’s grip, but the Mute stepped away. He pointed the tip at the weapon in the dirt and flipped the end.

_Pick it up._

The noble stood and brushed off the dirt. Face red, he grabbed the sword, muttered a derogatory phrase about lowborn brutes, and went after the Mute.

The ensuing chain of events would go down in the oral history of the village for generations. Not only did the Mute best the noble several times, but by the end, the noble was sweating and swearing and angry, and the Mute was breathing hard, but calm. On the last display where the Mute’s borrowed sword ended up under the noble’s chin, the noble let out a frustrated yell, turned away and mounted his horse.

He spat on the ground as the horse danced beneath him then rode out of the village.

As soon as he was gone, Matilda released Diarmuid and he raced to the Mute’s side.

Shoving the sword into the dirt, the Mute grabbed Diarmuid’s arms and gently pressed his forehead to Diarmuid’s.

“You’re there,” Diarmuid said, softly.

The Mute nodded.

Diarmuid’s whole body wilted. “I was scared you’d kill him. I should’ve known you wouldn’t. I should’ve had more faith.”

The Mute clutched the back of Diarmuid’s head fondly, ruffled his hair, then released him.

“Did you just win the lady’s hand in marriage?” Adam asked, running over, the farmer’s boys on his heels. “Is that what happened? Are you going to marry her?”

“He saved your life!” Diarmuid’s voice was sharp with fear. “You should be thanking him instead of asking about some lady!”

“Of course,” Adam said. “Thank you. Thank you. Whatever you want. It’s yours. Bacon? Ham? A whole hog?”

The Mute looked between them, expression unreadable, then turned and walked away. Diarmuid cursed in Gaelic and ran after him.

The sword stayed stuck point-first in the middle of the road for days, until someone removed it in the night, cleaned it, wrapped it in cloth, and left it propped against the stable door.

-

“Our family has a stone cottage on the edge of our land,” Adam’s father said the next week, standing in front of the Mute. “We don’t use it. It’s been empty these past few years. It’s yours if you have want of it, for what you did for my foolish son.”

The Mute exchanged a glance with Diarmuid.

“That’s very generous,” Diarmuid said. “We don’t have a place for the winter.”

Matilda tried not to take offense at that. Surely, they knew she’d keep them if there wasn’t another option?

The butcher rubbed his chin. “It would take work to be ready, but nothing that can’t be done before the first frost.”

“Is it nearby?”

“Yes, over the three hills, near a small creek. It has a well and a pasture. We let the shepherds run their sheep through the land there when needed.”

Diarmuid looked to Matilda, mouth open, brow furrowed.

Swallowing her own pain, she placed her hands on her hips. “Of course, they’ll use it, for this winter at least. Maybe more. We’ll ride out there tomorrow to see what work needs to be done.”

“Good. And if you,” he said, pointing a thick finger at the Mute, “ever need anything, you come to my family first. It’s a point of honor. You saved my son and as long as he is alive, we owe you a debt. Understand?”

“He does,” Diarmuid said.

-

Visiting the cottage turned into an affair as soon as the farmer’s wife heard about the offer. Before Matilda could corral her and her boys, the lot of them had joined them for the trip. Adam met them there as well, and before long, the property crawled with helpers.

The cottage sat on a hill. It was a small circular building made of stone with a thatched roof. A flat pasture sat to the side, fenced in with a lean-to stable attached. A well sat off the hill, made of the same stone, and with a cover of wood. A further walk away, down the hill into a valley, was a small copse and a babbling creek.

Before they even fully stopped the cart, the pup was off and running, sniffing the area and yipping at the Mute’s boots as he disembarked.

A pleased smile dimpled Diarmuid’s cheeks.

“It reminds me of the monastery,” he said. He ran his hand over the stacked sun-warmed stone of the cottage. “All that’s absent is the sound of the sea.”

“You’d have room for your own horse and a few goats or sheep,” Richard said as he ambled passed, pointing to the enclosed pasture.

David climbed onto the roof. “The thatching needs a bit of work, but only in patches.”

The farmer’s wife swanned outside after throwing open the door. “I will sew you a thicker curtain for the sleeping area. And a few of the shutters are rotted. You have mice, but nothing the pup can’t chase out.”

“The shepherds replaced the well rope and bucket last time they came through,” Adam said. “Your fence needs sturdier posts, but we’ll fix those.”

Matilda wiped her eyes as the boys guided the Mute around the property while they made lists of repairs and improvements.

“Matilda?” Diarmuid asked, voiced hesitant.

“I’m happy, dear.” She sniffed. “I’m happy. Now, let’s go inside.”

The cottage was small and cozy. There was enough room in the main area for a table with a bench and a chair. There was a fireplace with a chimney in the center that would keep them warm in the winter with an iron spit set in the grate for cooking. There was a window on each of the two side walls. At the back of the area, a moldy curtain hung which separated the main room from the sleeping area. It was big enough for a single pallet, maybe two if not much room separated them.

Diarmuid stared in wonder.

Footsteps at the threshold alerted them to another person and they turned to see the Mute standing there, an open and fond expression on his face, his lips teasing into a gentle smile.

“Yes,” Diarmuid agreed to the silent appraisal. “This could be home.”

-

By the middle of autumn, the cottage was livable and Diarmuid and his silent friend moved out of the stall in the stable to their home.

Matilda didn’t cry. She didn’t despite what Richard told the other villagers. But she did miss seeing them every day. She visited the cottage often, and they came into the village when they could, Diarmuid delivering mending to the villagers or bundles of herbs to Alice, and the Mute bartering work.

As the winter set in, the pup, now known as Psalm, grew bigger and followed Diarmuid and the Mute as they went about their business. The village folk ensured the pair had enough stores of food for the winter.

The day of the first frost, Diarmuid gave Matilda a hug. “I will see you in the spring.”

She squeezed him back. “Take care of yourself and him.”

Diarmuid clutched the strap of his satchel. “I will.”

She bid him goodbye and waved as Diarmuid turned at the edge of the town and looked back.

-

In the winter months, Matilda and Richard would hunker down in their little home, enjoy each other’s company, and live off their stores. Checking on the animals was a quick affair, and they kept the stable shut up tight, pelts and blankets hung over the doors and shuttered windows. On the mild days, they’d muck the stalls and let the animals roam in the pasture but on the days where the rain was icy cold, or snow drifted on the wind, they stayed comfortably nestled together.

It was on one such night, deep into the winter months, when someone pounded on their door. She exchanged a look with her husband then set her stitching aside.

Bundled up, she shuffled to the door, and cracked it open.

She hadn’t seen the either the Mute or Diarmuid since the bad weather set in, so it surprised her to see her silent friend pacing on her stoop.

Diarmuid was not with him.

“Where’s Diarmuid?”

The Mute was panicked. He wasn’t dressed for the cold, and he made a distressed noise in his throat. He grabbed her hand and tugged.

“Matilda? Who is it?”

“Our silent friend. Is Diarmuid hurt?”

He nodded. Another noise like a whine and a sharper, urgent tug.

“Richard, fetch Alice from the neighbors.” Matilda shoved her feet into the shoes by the door. “Is he injured?”

A shake of his head.

“Sick?”

A nod.

“Tell Alice to gather her supplies for a fever.”

The back door slammed announcing Richard’s departure, and Matilda was left alone with a distraught man, on the verge of panic. Fear made his eyes wild.

“Calm yourself,” she said gently. She held his hand in both of hers. “You did good coming here. We’ll take Alice with us and we’ll tend to him.”

Richard hitched the pony for them and they departed in the gloom, a lantern hanging off the cart for light, though the Mute knew the way by heart. He fidgeted the entire time. Matilda knew he could run faster than the plodding pace, but he was unwilling to leave Matilda and Alice on their own in the dark.

When they arrived at the cottage, he jumped from the seat. Matilda shooed him away when he offered his hand and he didn’t pretend to consider it. He disappeared into the stone cottage leaving the door open behind him.

Matilda entered cautiously. The curtain to the sleeping quarters was thrown aside and she spied Diarmuid sprawled on his pallet and the Mute knelt next to him, Diarmuid’s hand grasped in his.

“Merely a headache,” Diarmuid said, weakly. “I’m fine.”

Alice pushed through and settled by Diarmuid’s side. “Good. Then this will be a quick visit.”

Matilda could see and smell that Diarmuid lied. The scent of sickness permeated the very stone, and the sheen of sweat on his brow, and the quick pants of his breath belied his assertion.

“You’re very warm, Diarmuid,” Alice said, her knuckles brushing over his temple. “How long have you been ill?”

Diarmuid wrinkled his brow. “My head ached the morning of two days ago. Yesterday, I took a nap in the sun with Psalm after scraping a deer hide.”

The Mute pursed his lips. Matilda and Alice exchanged a glance. Two days ago. He was already two days into the sickness. He was on a precipice and he’d take a turn in either direction within a few hours.

“We need to cool your skin,” Alice said. “It will help with the aches.”

He said a phrase in Gaelic, then moaned when Alice jostled him as she moved about the cramped space.

She frowned deeply. “Get fresh water from the well,” she said, addressing the Mute. “We need it for the herbs and to cool him.”

The Mute nodded and departed without question. Once he was gone, Alice stood.

“It’s the fever,” she said, quietly. “I can brew tea for the pain, but for the rest…” she trailed off. “It will have to take its course.”

When the Mute returned, he and Matilda worked together to soak cloth in the cold water and strip Diarmuid from his damp clothes. They left him with a blanket over his lower half for modesty, and the plain wooden cross and the leather cord pooled to the hollow of his throat. Matilda made note that when Diarmuid was well, she would need to stop referring to him as a boy as there was corded muscles in his arms and torso from months of toil, and a smattering of his own scars marring otherwise smooth skin.

But it was a fleeting thought as Diarmuid squirmed and groaned when they laid a cloth over his brow and a larger one over his chest, tucking it under his arms.

Alice brewed tea over the coals in the fireplace from the herbs in her pouch. She handed a tin cup to the Mute.

“Help him drink.”

Diarmuid’s eyes opened when the Mute nudged his arm and showed him the cup. Diarmuid struggled to sit up on his own and he leaned heavily into the Mute’s side as he drank. Gaze unfocused, he nestled on the Mute’s shoulder when the cup was empty.

“Matilda?” he asked.

“Yes, love.”

“I don’t feel well.”

Fear tightened her throat. “Then rest.”

He closed his eyes and dropped off into sleep before they had him lying back on his pillow.

-

Hours later, the fever took hold. 

Diarmuid lapsed into a half-waking state.

He writhed on the pallet, speaking in fragments of different languages, face drawn, and sweat seeping from every pore. Alice brewed another pot of tea but shook her head when Diarmuid couldn’t keep the liquid down. He retched into a bucket, body trembling and back arched, sobbing as he collapsed back to his bed.

With a gentle touch, the Mute wiped Diarmuid’s mouth and cheeks with a cloth, brushing away the stream of tears.

They rearranged the wet cloths and Diarmuid cried out, yelling things Matilda didn’t understand, but which made the Mute’s face drain of color. He reached for people who weren’t there, murmured prayers in slurred Latin, and cried for a mother he’d never known then for Brother Ciaran.

The Mute caught his hand when he flailed and held on. He ran his fingers through Diarmuid’s wild hair to comfort him.

After a while, Diarmuid dropped off into a deeper sleep. He still muttered occasionally but it wasn’t the tortured sounds of before.

The sun peaked over the horizon and Alice rose from her spot on the floor. 

“Keep him cool. I’ve left a bundle of herbs for the tea. Try to keep water in him.” She gently touched Matilda’s arm. “I’ll let Richard know the situation.” She leaned in close and dropped her voice. “It won’t be long.”

Matilda willed back tears. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Alice let herself out and the Mute stared up at Matilda from his place by Diarmuid’s side. He hadn’t moved in hours and dark circles sat beneath his eyes.

“You should rest,” she said softly. “While he’s peaceful. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

He agreed though reluctantly.

Stoking the fire, he leaned against the hot stones, legs out straight, hands in his lap, and rested his head on the wall.

Matilda didn’t know if he was truly asleep, but she settled in his abandoned spot by Diarmuid’s bedside and took over the duty of holding the boy’s hand and calming him as was needed.

-

Diarmuid worsened as the hours dragged on.

In a rare moment of lucidity, Diarmuid grasped Matilda’s wrist, his grip clammy and weak. His glassy eyes struggled to focus on her.

“Don’t let him grieve for me,” he said, voice a rasp.

She brushed the sweaty brown curls from his forehead.

“I’d sooner be able to stop the sun from rising.”

He grimaced, and tears rolled from the corners of his eyes to his temples and into his hair. His hand fell to the pallet limply.

“Shush. Don’t worry about that now. Rest and be well.”

He whimpered. Her heart ached.

“It hurts,” he said, slipping back into the language of his home. “God has forsaken me. I knew He would. After what I’ve done.”

Matilda cupped his burning cheek. She wiped away his tears with her thumb. “No. No. He has not. You are good, Diarmuid. You have been the brightest spot in all our lives since you came to us. I know you are the brightest spot in his.”

Diarmuid’s body seized. His features twisted in pain, and his breathing sounded as if through a reed. He gritted his teeth and clawed at the pallet beneath him.

She’d seen this before. It never ended well.

“Here. Drink this. Drink, love.” He drank what he could of the tea Alice had left, but it tired him. She eased his head down and his eyelids fluttered shut.

He didn’t speak again for long minutes, but when he did, it was to the ghosts who haunted him, and he responded in meandering Gaelic and pleading Latin and groans of pain.

-

Matilda swallowed down her tears. It felt like an age since the Mute had knocked on her door, panicked, in the middle of the night, but less than two days had passed. Alice was right. It hadn’t been long.

The rattle of Diarmuid’s breath was the only sound in the cottage and soon it would cease. This was the end, and her silent friend knew it.

He rubbed Diarmuid’s chest with a closed fist, willing the boy’s rib cage to rise and fall, but it was a temporary solution.

Diarmuid was dying. The end of his earthly life was near.

Matilda thought of her son. She thought of where they’d bury Diarmuid—on the highest hill, where on a clear day, and if you squinted, you could see the shimmer of the sea. He’d said once how he missed the sea. She’d get the farmer’s boys to speak—they loved Diarmuid—and Richard too.

The Mute clasped Diarmuid’s hand in his own, holding it to his lips, while he continued to push air into the boy’s lungs. Each breath was a painful wheeze. His lips were tinged blue. He hadn’t murmured or moved in hours.

It was time.

Matilda placed her hand on his shoulder, softly, tentatively, unsure of the reaction. But he didn’t flinch or lash out, merely slumped. “Let him go,” she said.

He turned to her, face stricken, every horror he’d ever witnessed right there in his eyes. The one thing he’d lived for lay in front of him, barely holding onto the string of life, and he was helpless, and he knew it. He wouldn’t survive this. Matilda would lose them both. The thought cleaved her in two, and she would’ve collapsed with it. But she had to be strong now. Had to be strong until the boy was gone.

“Let him go, love. Let him go to the Lord.”

He shook his head, pressing Diarmuid’s knuckles to his chapped lips. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

In a cracked, desperate voice, he prayed.

His voice was raw and low, and painful to hear, a breath shaped into words if a voice at all. But he prayed, fervent and fraught, and poured out his plea to God.

Diarmuid believed in miracles. Matilda could too.

She joined the prayer and begged God to wait.

He listened.

-

Diarmuid’s fever broke within the hour and his sleep went from tortured to deep and healing. Color returned to his face, and his breathing, though still labored, evened.

Matilda didn’t know which was more miraculous—Diarmuid’s recovery or the whispered words from her silent friend.

She knew which one Diarmuid would choose.

Matilda’s bones creaked when she stood, using the Mute’s shoulder for leverage. He didn’t seem to notice, his gaze fixed on Diarmuid’s sweet sleeping face.

She didn’t dare try to pull him away, so she bustled about the cottage, clearing the mess from their meals and letting Psalm out to play in the snow. She’d leave in the morning for home now that Diarmuid appeared to be on the mend. Until then, she’d prepare meals from their stores to tide them over. Maybe she’d convince them to come with her, so she could watch over them better.

She made a place to sleep by the fire to warm her weary bones, but before she saw to her rest, she checked in one more time. Peeking beyond the curtain, she spied Diarmuid with his eyes open, the Mute holding a cup of water to his lips, neck cradled in his large hand. More water spilled over Diarmuid’s cheeks and chin than went past his cracked lips to be sure, but the water would be soothing all the same.

“You prayed for me,” Diarmuid said, mouth pulling into a soft smile. “You prayed for me. You prayed and I heard the bells.”

The Mute cradled Diarmuid to his chest, chin resting on the wild curls of Diarmuid’s head, tears slipping from the corner of his eyes. “For you,” he said, the sound a rumble in his chest. “Always for you.”

Diarmuid weakly clutched the Mute’s tunic, eyes fluttering shut, features relaxed and unburdened. “I live for you. Always for you.”

-

By the time the first shoots of spring broke through the ground, Diarmuid had recovered completely.

It was a miracle.

Word spread around the village that Diarmuid had been ill and there wasn’t a person in miles who hadn’t asked Matilda how he was. When he sat on her stoop, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the spring chill, breathing in the clean air, everyone who walked into town came over to wish him well. 

Psalm lay at his feet, her tail thumping on the ground. The Mute was across the street with Adam and David. He grudgingly held a dagger and tried to teach them how to throw it. David laughed as Adam practiced and it plunked on the ground spraying dirt. The Mute shook his head, smiling, then nudged Adam to pick it up and try again.

“You look well,” Matilda said, tucking the blanket tighter around Diarmuid. “So does he.”

Diarmuid smiled. “We are well.” He shivered. She clucked her tongue. “Soon you will go inside and sit by my hearth and warm yourself until it’s time for you to return home.”

He sighed. “A while longer,” he said, almost a question. His brown curls ruffled in the wind as he tilted his head back toward the sky. “I have missed the sun.”

She hummed. “We all have.”

Matilda heard the thunder of horse hooves before she saw the group enter at the far side of the village. She glanced their way. It wasn’t unusual for the keep’s soldiers to stretch their horses legs after a long winter, but when she saw the burgundy crest and the white coat of arms, her heart seized.

“Get inside,” she said, tugging on Diarmuid’s arm.

“What? Why?” He squinted and made a high noise in his throat when he saw the knights with the Baron de Merville’s markings.

It was too late.

The trio of knights rode into the center of the street. The middle one, a broad man with graying hair, stood in his stirrups.

In accented English, he called for their attention.

“We have heard stories of an Irish monk and a mute traveling together through this village. We are looking for these two men. They are wanted for the murder of Sir Raymond de Merville and of a Cistercian monk named Geraldus. For those who come forward, there will be a substantial reward.”

Diarmuid ducked his head, scrunching down into the folds of his blanket. Across the street, Adam and the farmer’s boys discreetly tucked the Mute behind them, their bodies a shield between him and the riders.

Matilda didn’t breathe.

“No one here like that,” David called. 

The rider dismounted and walked over. His armor clinked, and his cape swayed. He had an impressive sword strapped to his hip and Matilda wished the one the nobleman had left behind wasn’t currently at the cottage acting as a peg for Diarmuid to hang his cloak.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” David said. “We’d know.”

“And you?” The soldier asked, looking right at the Mute.

“That’s my uncle,” Adam said, moving in front. “Lived here all his life with my mum and da.”

“Can he speak for himself?”

“No, he cannot.”

The soldier raised an eyebrow. 

“Might be why you have had reports of a mute being here, because he is one. Mistaken identity and all.”

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “This isn’t a joke, boy. The man we’re looking for is dangerous. He killed several of de Merville’s men and his son. The body we found had its throat ripped out.”

They shifted uneasily.

“Sounds gruesome,” Matilda said, standing. “It’s good we haven’t seen these men you look for.”

Distracted, the knight turned and addressed Matilda. “One man and one boy.” He nodded toward Diarmuid. “About his age.”

Matilda rested her hand on Diarmuid’s head. “My son’s age? My that is young to have committed such crimes.”

“We believe he was led astray. Enticed by sin.” He sniffed. “They were to escort a relic, a stone with the power of miracles, and we believe the boy meant to sell it.”

Diarmuid kept his head bowed and Matilda willed him to keep his stubborn mouth shut. It was a miracle that he did.

“Is this what de Merville’s knights have to do with their time?” Richard bellowed as he came from the stable, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Intimidate women and boys about men and relics? They answered your questions and now they have chores to do.” Richard pointed at Adam. “Take your uncle and get started on rounding up those sheep on the hill unless you want to go naked this spring. And you boys,” he said gesturing to the farmer’s sons, “don’t you have tilling to get after? Does your father have a magic rock that can air his soil?”

The group stuttered apologies and scattered. Adam pulled the Mute behind him.

“Son,” he said, addressing Diarmuid, “go sit by the fire. You look peaked.” He looked back to the knights. “He’s been ill. We almost lost him this past winter, but by a miracle, he survived.”

Diarmuid gathered his things and entered the house, face drawn and pale, hands shaking. Psalm followed at his heels.

“You’ve been blessed,” the knight said.

“We have. Now, we haven’t seen these folks you’re looking for. We don’t want any trouble and if we had seen them, we would’ve sent them on their way.”

The knight didn’t look convinced, but he acquiesced. “Very well.”

He mounted his horse, took one last look around the village, and trotted off, his men following.

-

The Mute hadn’t gone with Adam at all. He’d looped around the town and entered the back of Matilda’s home, so when she arrived, she found him next to Diarmuid on the bench at her kitchen table.

“We’ll leave,” Diarmuid said, sad and small. “We don’t want anyone to be hurt because of us.”

“Nonsense.” Matilda bustled about. “Complete nonsense. You’ll not be run off by the likes of them.”

Diarmuid bit his lip. “What if they come back?”

“Then we’ll send them on their way again.” She reached across the table and patted Diarmuid’s arm. “You’re happy here, aren’t you?”

Diarmuid looked to the Mute. “Yes,” he said, not addressing Matilda. “I’m happy. I’m home.”

The Mute took Diarmuid’s hand in both of his own and brought it to his chest.

_We’re home._

The Mute smiled, tender and soft.

And Matilda counted it a miracle.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts:
> 
> Matilda was one of the most popular English names for women in the 13th century.  
> Nothing else in this fic is remotely historically accurate and is a conglomeration of various movies and imagination.


End file.
